


To Be Forgotten

by andersonblaines



Series: To Be Forgotten [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Angst, Depression, Drug Use, Holmes Family, M/M, Post-Reichenbach, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Sad, Self-Harm, Slow Burn, Suicidal Thoughts, not canon compliant for series three
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-09
Updated: 2016-07-20
Packaged: 2018-06-01 07:13:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 19,112
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6508030
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/andersonblaines/pseuds/andersonblaines
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>They barely speak, but Sherlock writes odes to John up and down his arms in the privacy of his bedroom at 1:43am.</i>
</p><p> </p><p>Sherlock has scars. So does John. Sometimes, they both forget this.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Hide Our Emotions Under The Surface

**Author's Note:**

> Hello there! This idea came to me at work one day, and it's morphed into this huge story unlike anything else I've ever written. This is the first time I've ever finished writing a fic before publishing it too, so updates will happen regularly and the fic is completed. 
> 
> In terms of content, I really took Sherlock through hell on this one. I'm sorry. I adore the way that Sherlock and John's relationship works, and writing this physically pained me at times because I wanted to scream at John and tell him to behave himself. There are trigger warnings for self-harm - that is the main theme of this fic - suicidal thoughts and depression. I've struggled with self-harm and depression for nearly six years now, so I like to think I've got a grasp on writing about it. 
> 
> I think enjoy is the wrong word, but I hope you like this nonetheless. Comment with ideas/theories/prompts and I'll always get back to you. :)

Serbia was simultaneously awful and eye-opening. Sherlock had never, not even in the worst withdrawal, experienced pain like it. It was cold and naked and deserted, brutal and atrabilious and painful. Pain defined every moment, conscious or not, and Sherlock learnt that no matter how hard he tried to ignore it, the pain helped him survive.

The sting of the whip across his back felt so intense and so burning and so present that it cleared Sherlock's mind of all else, if only for a second or two. Then, everything would come flooding back, _JohnJohnJohnJohnJohn_ , then the whip would strike again, curling around to his ribcage, and John vanished from his mind once more.

Mycroft tuts at him and tells him he's being irrational when he refuses treatment for his wounds, all the open and the healing ones, but he does it with a kind look in his eyes. Sherlock quiets him with a dismissive hand and presses his back against his chair just so, breathes deeply for the first time since Mycroft freed him.

**

After John attacks him, reopening his healing back wounds, and then punches him in the face and walks away without even a hint of looking back, Sherlock starts a log. Nothing fancy, just the dates and the locations, the severity, the frequency. It starts with Mycroft's chair.

He tries to add a reason, but each time one word is written, a name, and it gets too repetitive, so he stops.

Then _she_ appears, and his reasons become something real, a living tangible person stealing what used to be his. He doesn't write this down.

She tells him she'll talk him 'round, and maybe she will, but Sherlock doesn't want her to. He wants John, he wants John to want him back, to be his friend again without coercion needed. He doesn't want a false friendship borne out of ‘promise me you'll try’ and polite formalities.

He wants his John, not Mary's John.

Later that evening, Sherlock hurts himself for the first time on purpose. He uses a scalpel left over from some experiment or another, dust coating his old table, and for a few minutes, his brain silences. Everything focusses on the pain in his arm and it's so beautiful, so serene. It's much quicker than cocaine. What’s even better is that when his brain starts to talk again, he adds a new cut, and everything silences again.

He repeats this until he falls asleep on the bathroom floor at 2:32am.

**

The next day, he wakes around noon to dried blood and the smell of rust. He rinses his arm under the shower, revelling in the sting, and then finds his log and adds in the 12 new injuries.

He used to make lists for Mycroft when he overdosed. Maybe that's what his log is, maybe it isn’t. This method has no adverse effects on those around him. He can hurt himself and then speak to Mrs Hudson without a single soul suspecting a thing. Mycroft can’t cut off his dealer anymore. It’s perfect. Sherlock is in complete control.

**  
Mary arrives with the skip code and Sherlock doesn’t even stop to think.

On the ride to the bonfire, Sherlock realises that whoever took John text Mary and not him. He’s not John’s first point of contact anymore, or his first anything, and that stings like nothing else.

Sherlock lets the flames lick at his hands when he pulls John out. He holds them in the fire for longer than he needs to. It doesn’t make him forget about the woman stood behind him.

**

Their reunion is short, not at all sweet. The sight of John back in _their_ flat makes Sherlock weak at the knees, and he falls when he leaves.

**

There is a distinct similarity with cocaine in that each time, he wants - no, needs - to do more to have the same effect. It starts small, as most things do, and it grows. It grows into something dangerous, something he didn't know he wanted until it was there, knocking on his door and coming in uninvited.

Not once did he think he would be comparing his results with others on online forums, feeling more inadequate with every click. Mrs Hudson walks in on him once, and he has a photo album of someone's hospital trip on the laptop screen, dividing his pleasant landlady from himself, his brain unable to focus on anything but what incredible things this person has achieved. It doesn’t cross his mind that it’s the wrong thing to think.

Sherlock tells her to leave under the pretence of a case (even though he is resolutely ignoring Lestrade), then takes his shirt off and chooses a spot to experiment on.

**

Mycroft visits. Sherlock’s left arm is bandaged from his elbow to his wrist underneath his shirt. Mycroft can see the white gauze peeking out from his shirtsleeve.

“Stop it, Sherlock.”

Sherlock scoffs. “Okay. Fine. Give me some cocaine to play with, and I'll never do it again.”

Mycroft’s breath stutters. “Not a chance, brother. Never would I willingly give you such a thing.”

“Well then,” Sherlock huffs, “this will have to do.”

“Sherlock.”

He pushes himself further into his chair, wincing as his bandaged arm scrapes along the side.

“Why does it have to be one or the other? Can it not be none?”

Sherlock fixes his glare on his brother. “Leave.”

“Not until you answer me.”

“Because!” Sherlock yells. “There, an answer. Now, go and overthrow a small country.”

“Sherlock, please.”

“Goodbye Mycroft.”

“This addiction is not any different to your last. John has-”

“Don’t,” Sherlock whispers. He wraps his arms around his legs, rubs his cuts against his calf.

“You are trying to fix something beyond your control, and in the process, you are slowly killing yourself.” He pauses, lets out a deep breath. “I cannot stand by and let you do that, not again.”

Sherlock pretends to ignore him. “Get out.”

**

When he returns from a trip to the local pharmacy for more first aid supplies, he finds his flat devoid of all sharp objects.

“Sloppy,” he says out loud, as he climbs to retrieve a hidden camera from the bookshelf and lets it smash on the floor. Within five minutes, he's destroyed them all.

He checks to make sure his secret hiding place has not been disturbed. Thankfully, he understands the term 'secret' more than his brother's henchmen.

His log gets a new addition that evening.

**

Triple murder, four bodies. At least a 7. Aldwych. 2pm. - SH

**I have a job. A full time one.**

And? - SH

**I can't come. Sorry. Maybe next time?**

Don’t worry. Gavin can be the idiot. - SH

**Sherlock, that was unnecessary.**

_And so is your complete and utter disappearance from my life. Do you even know? Do you even care? You were supposed to be the exception. You weren’t supposed to leave me too. I lov-_

Yes. - SH

**

Mycroft was right, the bastard. Caring is not an advantage.

**

It goes from a way of stopping his brain to a form of punishment too. He finds himself, late one rainy Saturday night, reading through John's blog with a whisky in his hand. He doesn’t drink a lot, but it called for him from the cupboard this evening.

It’s all, every single millimetre, his fault that they don't have this anymore. He should have jumped and stayed away. He should have jumped and taken John with him. He should have jumped.

Hours later, he's slashed John's armchair to pieces, hair wild and his arms bleeding. He collapses onto the floor at nearly midnight, knife in hand, and sobs. He curls his legs up and presses the tip of the knife into his thigh. Breathing doesn't seem worth it anymore, not when John's not there to remind him to do it and his only company instead is his self-destructive mind.

**

The next day, he sees himself in a mirror for the first time in weeks.

He nearly screams.

The mirror shards decorate his bathroom floor in what some would consider modern art. After hauling John’s ravaged chair into his old room, Sherlock shuts the bathroom door and the bedroom door and pretends that none of it ever happened.

**

Three months and four days since he last saw John, and the very man knocks on his door.

Sherlock doesn't know what to do. He knows who it is, could recognise that knock anywhere, but his knuckles are bruised and bloody, and he looks like he hasn't slept or ate for weeks, which he's not sure he has.

Eventually, John leaves. His notification sound goes off on Sherlock's phone. He forces himself to read the message, a tiny glimmer of hope bouncing around in his chest.

**Called by Baker Street earlier, you must have been out. No need to worry, have posted your wedding invitation through the door.**

Sherlock breaks all over again. Splinters of himself scatter across the flat, and all of them land in the holes in John's old armchair. No matter how hard he tries, they won't come out.


	2. Feels Like There's Oceans Between You And Me

Taking Molly on a case was not his brightest idea. Going on a case at all was not a great idea either, but besperate times call for desperate measures, or so the saying goes. She’s always been there for him but she’s not John, and that is only too obvious.

Sherlock hears John’s voice, the admonishing tone voicing all of Sherlock’s fears, and it knocks him sideways. There is no other way to put it: everything is a huge mess, and Sherlock is at the centre of it all.

He tells Lestrade that John's not in the picture anymore, except that not's entirely true. Any picture of Sherlock still has John in it, seeping out of Sherlock through his scars, both self-inflicted and not, his blood, his sad dark eyes, his gaunt face.

Oh, John is there, just in all the wrong ways, all the ways Sherlock needs him not to be.

**

Molly tries. So does Lestrade. He stops answering their phone calls and refuses to open the door.

On a Sunday, they both turn up at the same time, with Mycroft in tow, and standing at the back of the line, John. John _fucking_ Watson.

They threatened to break his door down, so he opens it and proceeds to lay on the sofa, turning his back to them, to _him_ , and attempting to breathe normally.

“Sherlock, sit up.”

He ignores Mycroft.

“We're here because we're worried about you, mate. You've not been yourself lately,” Lestrade says.

Sherlock scoffs. “How would any of you know?” He can’t see, but he imagines they’re all looking rather sheepish now that they’ve been confronted with the truth. “There is no reason for you all to be here, no need to be alarmed. You need to leave. I'm busy.”

After more verbal admonishing, all four of them shuffle towards the door. John stops and turns around midway through.

“Can I?” He asks, pointing towards the sofa as Molly and Lestrade mutter their goodbyes.

Sherlock sits up but doesn’t respond. John remains standing.

“I want you to be the best man at my wedding, Sherlock.”

He doesn’t even think. “No.”

John's eyebrows crease and Sherlock can feel his arms beginning to itch in that now all-too-familiar way. “What?”

“I said no. N-O. Now, go, I'm busy.”

John doesn't move a muscle. “I'm not going anywhere.”

Mycroft appears in the doorway, face tense. “Doctor Watson, do as he says.”

John stands up, looks at them both. “What the hell is going on here?”

“Calm down, come outside and leave Sherlock be. Then we can talk.” Mycroft links his middle finger over his ring finger at his side, and Sherlock recognises it as the code they have for disclosing a lie.

“But-”

“Now, John.”

Mycroft ushers him out, and just before he closes the door, he looks at Sherlock and says, “I’ll return in ten minutes. Don’t do anything rash.”

Sherlock knows that this means he has ten minutes to replant himself on planet Earth. It's not as long as he needs after what has just happened, but it's better than nothing.

**

Mycroft returns thirteen minutes and twenty-four seconds after leaving. He sits next to Sherlock on the floor, both of them leaning against the wall, leaving enough space to forgo touching.

“I didn't tell him anything.”

“What did you tell him then?”

Mycroft sighs. “A watered down version of the truth, I suppose. He thinks you're using again, and I did not deny it.”

Sherlock huffs.

“Did you organise this little intervention?”

Mycroft shakes his head. “I hope you know that I would never stoop so low. I was contacted by Miss Hooper and after she told me the plan, I realised it was better that I came along to … diffuse the situation.”

“What situation?”

“John.”

The single word makes Sherlock wince.

“I have one more thing to say, and then I will leave you, if that is what you want.

“Doctor Watson cares about you, Sherlock. He cares for you a great deal, and you can trust that I do not say that lightly. So, believe me when I say that it is entirely possible that Mary Morstan is not the woman John originally believed her to be, that your separation may be more sinister that we thought.

“I have yet to discover further information on her past, but be warned, brother mine, that I have informed John of these developments.”

“When.”

“Minutes ago.”

“And his response?”

“I believe livid would be a fitting description.”

Sherlock sighs. “What now?”

“I cannot tell the future, Sherlock, but if I were you, I would find the good doctor a new chair, for he may need it sooner than any of us anticipated.”

Sherlock's breathing stills. “You don't mean that he's - John's coming back?”

“I cannot guarantee it, but it seems the logical course of action to me following his earlier anger.”

Sherlock's fingers find themselves digging into the cuts he just made, fingernails turning red with his efforts.

“Sherlock, please,” Mycroft says, reaching a hand out to rest on his brother's arm. “Do not think about it like that.”

“But, how can I not? She wasn't supposed to do that. She was supposed to be the normal one, the safe one, the reliable constant. Everything I am not.”

Mycroft tenses. “Things rarely go as planned. You, of all people, should know this.”

Sherlock pulls his arm out of Mycroft's grip and tries to regulate his breathing, which is getting faster by the minute.

“I'm sorry, Sherlock.”

“I was going to disappear. I was being forgotten, Mycroft, and now this. He doesn't fit in my life anymore. I've changed it all. I changed everything to remove him and now you want me to just put him back? You want to throw me in the metaphorical deep end? I can't do it. He will leave again, don't you get it? You must find him somewhere else to live.”

“Oh Sherlock, you have missed the most important part. He was gone because of her, and she is not important anymore. You are. Let that be enough.”

“It can’t be enough, not for him.”

“You hurt him, Sherlock. The way you feel now, John felt that way too after you died. Do not blame him if it takes him some time to adjust, for he believed he would never see you again; that cannot be overcome overnight, brother. You both need time to recover.”

Mycroft stands up, smiling sadly at his brother as he walks towards the door. “Sherlock, you must trust that John will return to you in due course. Don’t destroy yourself before he has the chance.”

**

Sherlock gets Wiggins to dump John's mangled chair somewhere, and between them, they manage to find one similar enough to be identical to the idiot's eye.

He also gets a cleaner to remove all of the bloodstains he'd made. John would probably never notice them, but Sherlock does it anyway.

When John arrives, Mrs Hudson spends the whole evening catching up on life with him. Sherlock doesn't say a word, except for later, when he speaks across his skin in his own private language. It’s hard for him to even look at John, at the man who is only there for reasons out of his control. Harry’s on holiday, so he can’t stay with her, and he can’t afford a hotel, so it’s stay with Sherlock or stay nowhere. It's amazing how quickly he went from first choice, a _shoot a cabbie, blow myself up_ first choice, to last choice, _I don't even want to be here and you're the worst_ choice. 

It's horrible. John says nothing and bangs about the flat, slamming cupboard doors and sighing loudly. Sherlock can't adjust to his presence. They barely speak, but Sherlock writes odes to John up and down his arms in the privacy of his bedroom at 1:43am.


	3. Now I'm Losing You

John hasn’t touched him once since he arrived with his bags both in his hands and under his eyes. Not a single affectionate pat on the shoulder, or god forbid, a hug.

221B has an air about it that Sherlock is sure has never existed between the walls before. Even when the two of them first met, this level of awkwardness was never there. They just magnetised to each other and stuck firm. There were never any ifs or buts; it just worked organically, with no trying needed. Sherlock could be Sherlock and John could be John and it _worked_.

It’s not like that any more. They’re both out of sync, repelling each other, no matter how hard Sherlock wants, needs, it to be better, wants it to be how it used to be before he died for John and couldn’t even tell him why.

**

“Sherlock?”

Sherlock says nothing. He pulls his coat tighter around himself and makes sure his bandages aren’t poking out of the end of his sleeves. Not that he really cares. John doesn’t seem to care either.

“Are you using again?”

Silence.

“Because I know something's going on. I'm an idiot, yeah, but I'm not stupid. You're hiding something, and I want to know what it is.”

“No." Sherlock tenses.

“Don't you dare lie to me, Sherlock Holmes, because God help me I will-,”

“I'm not. It's not a lie,” Sherlock mumbles into the sofa. He doesn't know what to do now.

“So if I got Greg to search the flat for drugs, you're telling me he wouldn't find anything?”

Sherlock scoffs. “Of course not.”

“What does that even mean?”

“Well, there’s always some hidden somewhere, just in case.”

John stands up, nearly knocking the table over with his speed. “‘Just in case?’” He yells. “Can you hear yourself? You can't have drugs in the flat 'just in case!' You're an addict, or had you forgotten that?”

Sherlock grits his teeth. “Not. An. Addict.”

John laughs, a mirthless sound. “Right.”

“You’ve got no idea,” Sherlock spits.

“I’m a doctor, Sherlock, I know what addiction looks like.”

“You’re wrong.” If the topic of conversation wasn’t so damn personal and intrusive, this could almost be classed as a normal chat.

“I don’t think so. You’re not always right, you know.”

Sherlock groans loudly, standing up and towering over John. “You have _no_ right to judge me or accuse me of anything, not after everything I did for _you_.”

The flat falls into silence. Just as John opens his mouth to say something probably pointless, their doorbell rings.

Sherlock's arms itch all over, and as John goes to answer the door, Sherlock locks himself in the bathroom.

He can hear _her_ talking downstairs, and he feels sick. He picks up his phone without a second thought. If he’d have told his twenty-year-old self that it would be Mycroft to save him from situation after situation, he would have laughed uncontrollably. Oh, how things change.

“You need to come and get me. Or get rid of him.” Sherlock pauses. “And her, whilst you’re at it.”

Mycroft doesn't say anything.

“Mycroft. I can't stay here any longer.”

His plea goes unspoken, but his voice is begging enough already.

**

They sit in companionable silence as one of Mycroft's drivers takes them to their parents' house, out in the countryside, away from the city that has brought Sherlock nothing but pain of late.

Mycroft had fetched Sherlock whilst John was out walking with Mary. He brings an overnight bag full of clothes and toiletries, and nestled in the inside zipped pocket, his log with a razor hidden in the pages. Just the essentials.

His mum fusses over him whilst his dad sit and stares, trying to figure his youngest son out. Sherlock doesn’t make a habit of coming to see them, and the only time he visits with Mycroft is Christmases when society tells him that’s the right thing to do.

He didn’t even realise where they were until Mycroft was complaining about the smell of manure, and Sherlock laughed slightly, feeling his chest tighten with the effort. Manure does not smell as nice as 221B, that’s for sure.

Mycroft must say something to their parents because they start easing up on the affectionate smiles and annoying-but-tolerable hair ruffles after that.

It's the first time that someone's touched Sherlock in a kind way for years.

**

It’s a week of silence before Mycroft metaphorically corners Sherlock.

“What's the plan, brother?”

Sherlock sighs, blows out his cigarette smoke. “For once, there isn't one.”

“We cannot stay here forever. I have work, and so do you. Also, Doctor Watson keeps ringing me. I don't know what to tell him.”

Sherlock says nothing. He stares into the countryside and wishes his mind was as empty as the fields. Life would be a lot easier that way.

“He's still at Baker Street you know.”

Sherlock looks up at that.

“Miss Morstan is not, before you ask. She's stayed over regularly but has not taken up permanence there.”

“Pfft,” Sherlock mutters. “I should hope she hasn’t. It is my flat after all, no matter how much some people ignore that fact,” he says, pointedly staring at his brother.

Mycroft glances at Sherlock. “It used to be John’s home, too, or have you forgotten that?”

“Of course not, don't be stupid. He left. Whether he's back again or not, he wants to be elsewhere.”

“Sherlock-”

“He's not there, not really, not anymore. It's not the same. He made sure of that. I refuse to pretend it is any longer.”

Sherlock stubs his cigarette out on his wrist and walks into the fields. He can feel Mycroft’s gaze on him as the sun sets.

**

Lestrade rings. It's the first call he's answered in three weeks.

“Alright mate?”

“Yes.”

“Planning on coming back to the city any time soon? I've got all sorts of murders going on. Could use a hand.”

“Send me what you've got.”

“It would be better in person, you know.”

“Send me it.” Sherlock hangs up and tries to remember what breathing normally feels like as he scratches the skin off of his hand and picks at his very slowly healing cigarette burn. London has never seemed less appealing.

**

From: hooperm@barts.co.uk  
To: sholmes@scienceofdeduction.net  
Subject: (no subject)

Hi Sherlock,

I know you're not in London at the moment, mostly because John keeps coming to the morgue thinking I know something he doesn't, which I don't. Also your brother told me. Well, he text me, but I suppose it’s the same thing these days.

Anyway, I know things must be hard for you at the moment. Whatever it is you're going through, you don't have to tell me, but you can stay at mine if you want. It's not much, but you'd know that because you stayed here before, after you ‘died’, but it's something and it's nowhere near Baker Street or John and Mary's new house, so you'd be safe. But you can get to those places too, if you wanted, on the Tube, but I'm sure you know that too.

Sorry for rambling. But yeah, the offer's there. Greg's offered too so you can always stay there instead. His house is cat free.

See you soon,

Molly

**

Sometimes Sherlock thinks he's being ridiculous, that making more pain isn't going to fix the pain already there, but then he realises that practically everything he does is seen as ridiculous by the outside world, so he carries on.

He's always been the outsider, the odd one, ever since he can remember, even in his own home with Mycroft telling him he was stupid when they were children. First it was the drugs and now it’s this.

But, he’s not an addict. Never an addict.

He _is_ in control.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you want a song for the chapters so far, I recommend Ditmas by Mumford and Sons. The lyrics are perfect, and I've been writing with it on in the background a lot. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cOBPiOdyGEM
> 
> For a slower, more mellow option, Poison & Wine by The Civil Wars gets me every time. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fNlxKH9Jtmc


	4. Every Day I Feel This Pain

When Sherlock can’t sleep, he reads John’s blog, and he can't sleep at all, so he reads John's blog a lot.

_I definitely think he might be mad but he was also strangely likeable. He was charming. It really was all just a bit strange._

Charming, and strangely likeable. John thought Sherlock was charming. Not any more.

_So tomorrow, we're off to look at a flat. Me and the madman. Me and Sherlock Holmes._

The madman? Sherlock has always been _different_ , he’s not a stranger to that fact, but now his madness maybe feels more like actual madness than just his way of dealing with the world.

He reads all the posts, reads his and John’s playfully bickering comments, and his chest hurts more with every word.

_I was hooked. He's like a drug._

Sherlock made John feel that way, once upon a time, like he was addictive and John was merciless to the urge to be with him. Sherlock shuts his eyes to the world after he reads that line, everything suddenly too bright and too painful for him to even register anymore.

John was addicted to him, and all Sherlock has done is hurt him, over and over and over again. For him to choose Mary over Sherlock, well, that’s natural, isn’t it? Humans do not return to things that hurt them, not really. If Sherlock was better, if Sherlock was less madman and more normal-man, maybe John would have weathered the storm and stuck by his side when he needed it the most.

No. Sherlock is mad, absolutely out of his mind with pain and numbness and feeling everything and nothing all at once, and sometimes he feels so sad that he can’t even speak properly. Sentences come out in jumbled letters, his hands fumble with mundane tasks like buttoning his shirt, and his legs are in a constant state of shaking, anxious about everything all the time.

No, he is not worth waiting for.

**

There's barely any crime in his parent's lazy Sussex village, so the boredom and the sadness all mount up and overflow, the same way his blood does. He's got nowhere to be and nothing to do and no one to breathe for, not anymore, so he cuts, and then cuts some more, and cuts again. It turns into a competition with only one player and disastrous risks.

He's sat on the tiled floor of his bedroom’s ensuite when he hits something he knows he probably shouldn’t have. Blood decorates the tiles and there's already so many cuts that he doesn't know which wound needs the most attention.

For a while, Sherlock just lets himself bleed. It’s calming, almost, seeing everything rush out of his body like that. It’s freeing, and peaceful, and as his eyelids start to droop, it’s everything he wants. His brain is quiet again, and he realises that he wants, oh how much he wants, to stop his brain for good.

But he can’t, not here, not now. Not in his parent’s house. He’s not _that_ awful.

Sherlock bangs on the door until his hands sting with the force and the white door is slippery with blood.

Mycroft bursts in mere minutes later, already rolling his shirtsleeves up and pulling his tie off. He keeps telling Sherlock that he needs to go back to London, but he’s never out of the house for more than an hour. It’s only longer if he can drag Sherlock along with him. So far, they’ve not been out more than once, and that was only to get shopping for their parents. Supermarkets really are ghastly places, full of the atrabilious smiling human population.

“Hang on, Sherlock, it's alright. Sit up slowly, okay?”

Mycroft pulls a towel off the rack and wraps it around Sherlock's arm. It hurts, oh god does it hurt, but that’s the point, isn’t it?

“Sorry,” he slurs, breathing out heavily and shakily.

“No matter,” Mycroft urges, raising Sherlock's arm above his heart. “It's okay now.”

“‘S not. Not okay. John,” Sherlock whispers. “John’s left me. He’s gone, Myc, gone gone gone.” He breathes slowly, then stares directly at his brother. “He’s always there,” Sherlock spits, tapping his temple with his free hand, “always always there. Sometimes it’s nice to think about, but not anymore. No, just bad things now. Just bad sad horrible things, horrible memories of all the things I fucked up.” Sherlock sniffs, breathes out heavily. “Whasstha point anymore?”

Mycroft tenses, then hushes Sherlock and places a tender kiss on top of his head. Sherlock’s too out of it, too focussed on the pain, to notice.

After wrapping his arm in another towel on top of the first, Mycroft manages to stop the bleeding and start cleaning the cuts. Sherlock winces as the antibacterial wipes sting, but it's soothing at the same time. Something to focus on. Something to take away from the fact that his brother is seeing him like this, the most vulnerable he’s maybe ever been.

It's just like the old days, when Sherlock used to overdose and Mycroft would come and sit with him until it had passed. Their animosity towards each other never seeps into this level of danger. Sherlock knows that no matter where he is, no matter the time, Mycroft will always come and sort him out. Sherlock would do the same for him too, but Mycroft is far too sensible to fall in love, or let his brain be affected by a chemical imbalance.

When John limped into Sherlock’s life, things started looking up. The drugs went away, the cigarettes made rarer appearances, and the blackness at the corner of his thoughts was less persistent. Home became John’s face, not a set of walls and a front door.

Maybe it would have been easier if they’d never met.

**

Sherlock’s stood pouring himself an orange juice when Mycroft walks into the kitchen. God only knows where their parents are, or what the hell they know about what happened earlier. If Mycroft has any sense, they’ll know nothing.

“I know you don't want to talk about it.”

“Don’t even try, Mycroft,” Sherlock replies, siping from his glass.

“I know you want to pretend this whole situation doesn’t exist, but Sherlock, you can't hide here forever.”

“Leave it, Mycroft.”

Mycroft straightens up and looks at his brother imploringly. “No, I won’t leave it. You are my brother, Sherlock, if that means anything to you anymore. You can’t keep doing this. You can’t continue to hurt yourself and expect a different result each time. You're going to kill yourself.”

Sherlock's whole body tenses. He really doesn’t think that would be such a bad thing.

“I can't let that happen to you.” Mycroft pauses, lets out a long sigh.

“Right. Going to book onto a first aid course then? Install a doctor in the house?” Sherlock growls. “Last time I lived with a doctor went _really_ well, didn’t it?” The sarcasm drips off his voice like melting ice.

“Sherlock, please, listen to what I’m trying to say.”

“I think I’ll pass,” he says, putting the remains of his orange juice in the fridge and striding past Mycroft to go back to the privacy and safety of his own room, and then, with no warning at all:

“I’ve called John.”

Sherlock freezes. His breathing stutters and he swears his heart stops beating for a few seconds. Medically dead, that's what John does to him.

“Nice try.”

“He'll be here tomorrow at noon. I don't know how else to help you anymore." Mycroft says, sighing. “I think that he is the only thing in the world that can protect you from yourself anymore.”

Sherlock's whole world starts spinning. He told Mycroft that he couldn't be around John and he trusted his brother to respect that. His whole body feels different, tingly and cold, and all he wants to do is stop everything. His brain is whirring again. This was supposed to be his place, his respite from all of the things he’s done wrong and now the very embodiment of all of that will be here. Maybe his mind is playing tricks on him. Maybe it isn’t.

Without a word, Sherlock leaves.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I used lines from John's blog but the lines are used on their own, out of the context of the actual blog post John wrote them in. 
> 
> I've been reading a lot of poetry lately. Here are some pieces that I think fit really well with this story. http://imgur.com/C9tq7eJ  
> https://s-media-cache-ak0.pinimg.com/736x/60/a0/32/60a0328ad57d63efa2e0736b72433f99.jpg  
> https://s-media-cache-ak0.pinimg.com/600x315/cc/07/ea/cc07ea6f46f8725825e56d317a7561dd.jpg https://www.instagram.com/p/BDGlhxTTNZN/
> 
> If any of you want a playlist for this fic, let me know in the comments, as I write to music a lot and I think it can really add to a story.


	5. Better To Leave Than To Be Replaced

In three words, Mycroft sends Sherlock spiralling into a pit of _why why why_ and _Johnhatesme_ and _no no no_ and _makeitallstop justmakeeverythingstop_ _pleasepleaseplease_. He can hear his brother following him as he walks out of the house and into the fields, towards a big oak tree he used to climb when he was younger. Once there, he sits down, and pulls his knees up to his chest and scratches deeply at his scalp, his whole body tingling and cold.

Mycroft ungracefully plonks himself beside Sherlock and rests his elbows on top of his pulled up knees.

“Go away, Mycroft,” Sherlock says, staring anywhere but at his brother.

“Not a chance.”

Sherlock groans. “Kindly, or not so kindly, fuck off.”

Mycroft shakes his head and shifts himself into a more comfortable position. They sit in silence before Sherlock speaks again, anger coursing through his veins.

“Why? Why did you have to do it? Thought you’d see how far you could push me before I jumped, is that it?”

Mycroft starts to speak but Sherlock cuts him off. “I was fine here. I _am_ fine here, but no, that wasn’t enough for you, was it? You’ve always got to be the one in control.”

Mycroft sighs. “Sherlock, you are many things but you are not, by any sense of the word, _fine_.”

“Don’t pretend to understand me. Save yourself that embarrassment at least.”

“I am not saying I understand you, Sherlock, or what you are feeling, but I know you, as much as you try and tell me otherwise.”

Sherlock huffs, pulls at his hair.

“If you tell me now that you wish to continue staying here without any word from John for the rest of your life, then fine. I will call him this second and tell him to stay far away. But,” Mycroft says, turning to look at his brother’s anguished pose, “you and I both know that is not what you want, and certainly not what you need.”

Sherlock sighs loudly, and pulls his head up to look at his brother, who despite all his flaws, cannot be said to be uncaring.

“I’m right, Sherlock. You know I am. It’s okay if you can’t, or don’t want to, admit that right now, but you are destroying yourself and I can’t sit idly by and watch that happen any longer.”

“What if you’re not right? What if the great Mycroft Holmes isn’t right for once, and that when you bring John here, he’s going to make everything worse? What then?”

“I cannot envision a world in which things are any worse than they are currently.”

Sherlock tuts at his brother. “Really? You really think this is as bad as things get?”

Mycroft opens his mouth to speak but is silenced by Sherlock’s hand. “Don’t say a word. You have no idea, no fucking idea. You were right about one thing, that getting attached is a disadvantage, but I’m afraid it is not one that I can just switch off. Then again, I suppose you wouldn’t know that, would you?” Sherlock spits, standing up and clenching his fists. “Tell John to stay away, far away. I’m going back to the house now, and I want you to leave me the fuck alone, okay?”

“Sherlock,” Mycroft calls behind him. “Please don’t be irrational.”

Sherlock turns around at that, feels like his blood is boiling. “Don’t you even _dare_ tell me what to do!” Sherlock yells, and then storms back to the house.

There is nothing but irrationality left. He knows that, has always known John Watson would be the end of him somehow, but it doesn’t change a single thing.

**

Sherlock bolts himself into his bedroom and pushes his chest of drawers in front of his door. He can’t face John. John is the embodiment of so many things that Sherlock has done nothing but avoid of late, and to think that they will all be arriving on his doorstep at once, it screams to Sherlock that desperate times call for desperate actions, or however the saying the goes.

He switches his phone off and rolls back both of his sleeves, taking his razor from the bloodied places of his log. He cuts himself slowly, and then quickly, and the release is instantaneous. It’s like a million and one things that had previously occupied his head have been sunk into the deep depths of his mind’s ocean, a place he never ventures.

If John is coming, he has no choice but to delete him. He’s got to remove all of the attachment that is meshed between them, so that when John does turn up, Sherlock has the emotional distance that he has with everyone else.

He tries. He really, really does. He cuts more, hopes that will help, but John is woven into the very cement of his mind palace and he will not come out, no matter how hard Sherlock pushes and hits and screams. Every room smells of John, of tea and worn jumpers and a caring nature that has never been there before.

Sherlock can’t delete John, so Sherlock has to delete himself, perhaps. Much sooner than he prefers, the fog rom his cuts lifts and everything is clear again, the clarity that hits him striking in the dusky sunlight. Sherlock sits and sits and twirls his razor between his fingers as he thinks. He needs something more permanent, something that will last a bit longer. John won’t leave his head, so Sherlock will.

Hidden under the sole of one of the pairs of shoes that Mycroft collected for him from Baker Street mere days ago is more of cocaine than any person should possess at any one time.

He ties the tourniquet around his arm with no thought. It’s so familiar to him now that it’s like breathing. Even just the feel of the fabric tightening around his bicep is soothing in a strange way, like his body is already expecting the tranquility that will soon adorn its already heavily tortured veins, punished through narcotic usage and now (insignificant but present) blood loss, too. His transport is abused by none other than the mind that keeps it alive. How ironic.

After writing a list, as always, he plunges the needle into his arm and thinks. He’s always known how to deal with pain, that is not a concern to him. He’s always found someway of distancing himself from his rampant emotions, be it through drug use or physical pain, but the one thing he cannot remove himself, cannot delete no matter how hard he tries, from is the way he feels, the way he has always felt, about John. He jumped for John. He died for John. He made everyone think he was a fake, a fraud, all for John. Of course, he cares for Lestrade and Mrs Hudson and Molly, he does, but he has never, ever, felt anything akin to the way he feels about John before. He’s learnt to cope with all the chemical imbalances inside his head, but he just cannot cope with the way his heart skips and his breath flutters when John tells - _told_ \- him he was fantastic, or brilliant, or a genius.

Sherlock was foolish to assume that John felt the same way. All those years of what could be described as happiness, all the times he looked at John and John looked back and he thought _maybe, just maybe, he feels it too_ , all to be torn apart and lost in the wind to one stupid decision Sherlock made. It was so hard, living for those years without John, but the thought of returning to him was the one motivator that kept Sherlock going. Now, he wonders if he should have just given in.

There is nothing left for them, not anymore. Sherlock made sure of that when he cut John out of the biggest decision of his life, and then returned, expecting a welcome home party and maybe a long hug. He should have known - John’s world does not rotate for Sherlock. Of course it doesn’t. Look at him. Look at the mess he’s made, and carried on making. Maybe if he’d worked at it, maybe they’d have been okay, but not now. Sherlock’s ruined everything even more and as far as he can work out, which considering the drugs circulating his system is not very far, he’s ruined it all beyond repair and there is no reason to go on.

With that thought, he shoots up again.


	6. Watch Me Fall Apart

There’s a bright light seeping underneath his eyelashes, and vaguely Sherlock registers something shaking him but that might just be the drugs.

“-lock, can you hear me?”

That’s Mycroft, or at least, Sherlock thinks it is. He groans, feels like he’s on one of those ghastly fairground rollercoasters that spins and spins in all directions.

Then, somewhere in the background, or maybe next to him, he can’t tell, Sherlock hears a voice that he did not expect to ever hear again.

“Sherlock Holmes, you better wake up soon or so help me God I will bloody-”

 _John_.

Sherlock’s head thumps back against something and everything goes black again.

**

Everything goes from mind-numbing pain to _hot hot too hot_ to _my head is trying to crack itself open from the inside out_ to _my brain wants to escape_ and finally, to _make it stop make it stop make it STOP_.

There are voices and bright white lights rupturing his eyes and some god awful clean smell lining his nostrils and it’s all just too much, so Sherlock lets everything pause, lets his eyes roll back and sleep overtake him. Just once more.

**

The next time he wakes up, the pain in his head is still there but it’s less aggressive and more soothing. Still hurts, though.

Before he opens his eyes, he tries to figure out where he is and who’s with him. There’s the distinct smell of hospital all around him, which is not a good sign at all. With the bright lights puncturing his vision, though, it’s all but certain that he is, in fact, lying on a hospital bed. There’s something heavy rushing through his blood, too, so he’s more than likely hooked up to a drip or whatever the doctors have seen fit to flush him out with.

He can hear someone breathing beside him, no, that’s two people. One of them shifts, and their chair squeaks, and then the silence returns. Silent except for the beeping of some god-awful machine right next to his head.

Might as well assert his conscious presence now, if at least to get the light turned off and the beeping stopped.

When he blinks his eyes slowly open, the person sat on his left moves forward in their chair and grabs the side of his bed.

“Sherlock?”

John. Of course it’s John.

“Can you hear me?”

As soon as his eyes are open, he looks not to his brother and his … whatever he is, but to his body. He’s in one of those god-awful hospital gowns with, and here’s the worst part, short sleeves. So, not only does he have wires and tape attached to his arms, but all of his scars are on show, with some deeper fresh cuts that he doesn’t remember making.

“Mycroft,” he chokes, throat impossibly dry. “Gemme outta here.”

His brother stands up beside him, and John stays stock still.

“I’m afraid you’re not going anywhere, Sherlock.”

Sherlock groans, turns his head to stare at his brother a bit too quickly and makes everything go black and blurry around the edges of his vision. He blinks it off, breathes, and says, venom in his voice, “fine. Then I’ll go myself.”

Sitting up is relatively hard when there are wires and tubes attached to you all over, but he tries anyway. His progress is stopped by a hand, a sun-weathered, scarred hand, on his chest.

"Stop this. Just lie down before you do yourself any more damage."

Sherlock groans loudly and pushes against the hand, determined to reassert his strength over John.

"I said, stop it, Sherlock."

"I don't care," he groans. "Get off me." With that, he starts fighting, shoving his shoulders around as Mycroft joins John in pushing him back to the bed.

"If you don't calm down, we'll have to sedate you. You don't want that, so just lie back and take a few deep breaths for me, okay?" John's voice is so doctorly and oddly caring that Sherlock feels sick.

"Fuck off," Sherlock yells, reaching to pull a wire out from his left arm as he starts to swing his legs over the side of bed.

John's hand grabs his, and Sherlock feels him squeeze. "Hey, Sherlock, stop it. For me, yeah?"

“I’m not doing anything for you ever again,” Sherlock huffs, his eyes getting misty.

He lets everyone continue to chatter and falls asleep at some point. He needs to wait for his room to be empty before he can get out properly.

**

Sherlock blinks awake to the rustling of a newspaper beside him. Sounds like the Daily Mail. John always chose the trashiest tabloids.

He must move without realising it, because seconds later, John’s stood next to his bed, hands awkwardly hanging by his side and clenching intermittently.

“Sherlock? Alright there?”

“Mmpf,” Sherlock moans, slowly realising that everywhere hurts and his head is pounding and the lights are just too bright, and Christ how he wishes he was somewhere else.

“Are you in pain?”

Sherlock snorts. “No, of course not.”

“Well that’s a lie.”

“Your intellect astounds me.”

“Right,” John says, huffing out a breath. “So that’s what it’s gonna be like? Fine. Okay.”

Sherlock focusses on breathing without wincing too much.

“I’m only going to ask this once, alright? Mycroft’s off somewhere, God knows where, so it’s just you and me. Now, what can I do to help?”

Sherlock’s fingers clench in the sheets as he considers John’s words, the implication of every syllable. He considers telling him to get out of his life for good, but he knows, even subconsciously, that he couldn’t live with himself if he did. So, he chooses the only other option there is.

“Get me out of here.”

**

John, to his credit, agrees without any fuss. After he’s called for a taxi, he goes about removing Sherlock’s various wires, and it’s almost _too much too much too much_ when John’s callused fingers dart across scars and cuts on his arms. Sherlock’s breath hitches and he looks away. John says nothing verbally, but the tense line of his mouth and his returned limp say it all.

Once Sherlock is unhooked from all the machines, John pulls a hoodie out of a plastic bag he’d kept under his chair.

“Thought we might be needing this today.”

Sherlock smiles, just a little bit, and shrugs the jacket on over his awful hospital robe, thankful for the privacy of his hidden arms once more. Then, out of nowhere, Sherlock turns around to see John pushing a wheelchair towards him.

“Hop in.”

Sherlock laughs, but it's clipped and guarded. “I can walk.”

“One, no, you can’t and even if you can, I’m not letting you. Two, we can get out easier if it looks like I’m taking you outside for some fresh air.”

Sherlock humphs, but he supposes John has more experience of hospital etiquette than him. He sits himself down, pulls the hoodie sleeves and notices that the hoodie is his. It’s an old one, but he recognises the tea stain on the left sleeve and the soft insides. It’s a nice familiarity in a world full of harsh, cold strangers.

Sherlock tries to figure out how long he’s been in hospital, but his head starts hurting very quickly, so he asks John.

“Oh, erm, today makes it a week.”

“A week?”

“Yeah. You were pretty out of it.”

“Hmm,” Sherlock murmurs, frowning. He suddenly feels very cold.

When they’ve reached the taxi pick-up area, Sherlock stumbles into the backseat as John directs the taxi driver to Sherlock’s parents’ house. It all feels so surreal and without realising it, Sherlock drifts off.

**

He finds himself in his bed somehow, and it’s night time if the darkness in his room is anything to go by. Hovering in a chair by the foot of his bed is John.

“Hello sleepyhead,” John says quietly. “Back to the land of the living yet?”

Sherlock grunts and turns over.

“Right, okay, should have expected that.” His knees click as he stands up. Sherlock nearly deduces what that means out loud, but he doesn't. It's not his place anymore.

“I'm going to get a glass of water, do you want anything?”

_Yes, some peace, quiet and a razor to make this whole situation stop hurting my head._

Sherlock says nothing.

When John gets back, Sherlock’s sat up in bed. John settles into his chair and takes a sip of water as Sherlock eyes him nervously.

“Why are you here?”

“What?”

“Why are you here, I said.”

“Because you’ve just discharged yourself from hospital and I need to make sure you don’t stop breathing in the middle of the night.” John’s hands twitch as he speaks.

“I don’t need babysitting,” Sherlock replies harshly, refusing to accept anything at face value anymore. Mycroft tricked him, and John is tricking him too.

“I know that,” John says softly, leaning forwards towards the bed.

“So get out then. I’m fine on my own.”

John huffs. “Erm, Sherlock, I’m not going anywhere.”

“Yes, you are.” He means it more ways than one.

“Just go back to sleep and stop complaining.”

“No,” Sherlock yells. “No, actually, I won’t. I refuse to be told what to do. I am fully capable of looking after myself despite what my imbecilic brother might have said to the contrary.” He swings himself out of bed, gives himself a few seconds to prevent any dizziness, and then strides towards his door and swings it open. “Goodbye,” he motions, gesturing to the door.

“Nope. Not going anywhere. How about you stop being a child and get back into bed?” John says, his voice getting louder.

“I don’t think I will.”

“Fine. I’ll sit here and you stand there and we’ll see who moves first, shall we?”

Sherlock eyes his shoes by the wardrobe and his coat on the back of the door, and, after slipping his feet into his shoes, turns to face John with a level of anger that he didn’t know he was capable of, “I’ll leave then.”

He pulls his coat around him and stares at John as he walks towards the door. “Don’t you dare follow me.”

John stands up quicker than Sherlock’s ever seen and nearly kicks his glass over in the process. “I am not leaving you on your own, Sherlock Holmes.”

He strides towards John and stares him straight in the eyes. “Too late for that, John.”


	7. Only We'll Know

Sherlock walks and walks until he reaches the top of some hilly field, adorned with the beginnings of Spring and an old wooden bench.

It doesn’t take long for him to fall asleep with his head resting on his hand, propped up by the arm of the bench.

He wakes later to the sun rising. It’s the most peaceful, innocent thing he’s seen in a long time.

**

Sherlock would recognise the creak of those shoes anywhere.

“Ah, Mycroft. I wondered how long it would take one of my babysitters to come and ruin my peace.”

“I'm not here to ruin anything, Sherlock, trust me.”

“John wouldn’t leave me alone.”

“Well, to be blunt, you did overdose and nearly die. I can hardly blame him.”

Sherlock tries to hide his flinch at his brother’s words, but knowing Mycroft, it does not stay hidden.“He’s suffocating me.”

Mycroft sighs. “I will tell Doctor Watson to leave you be, but you are going to have to talk to him at some point.”

“I don’t care. Tell him to fuck off back to London and his new lady friend.”

“Such language, brother.”

Sherlock glares at him as he sits beside him on the bench, hands him a travel cup of coffee.

They stare at the countryside in companionable silence until Mycroft speaks.

“He’s left her.”

“What?” Sherlock splutters, his head pounding.

“John’s left Mary. And not just in London, he’s left her for good.”

Sherlock looks at Mycroft.

“I… No, no.”

Mycroft sighs deeply. “Yes, Sherlock.”

His mind spins. “You're lying. Trying to make me feel better.”

“I would not lie to you, not about this.”

Sherlock looks at his brother and ascertains that he is, in fact, telling the truth. His breath stutters in his chest. He wanted John back, and now that he’s got him, why does it feel so wrong?

“Sherlock, you are here, and so is John. He is here for you, and you alone. Do not push him away, not now.”

Sherlock sinks down on the bench, his hand coming up to fidget with his top lip. “I, shit, I tried to delete him, Mycroft.”

“What?” Mycroft looks at him imploringly.

“That night, when I…” He trails off. “I tried to delete him completely because it was just too-” he stumbles, breathes out shakily. “I couldn't. It appears the good doctor has infected all of my memories in some way or another. He's everywhere, in every room.”

“Oh, Sherlock,” Mycroft breathes. “I did not realise.”

“I came here to get away from him, from everything that reminded me of him and all we had, and then you said you were bringing him here and I, I don't know, my mind couldn't put it all together properly, couldn’t see how we could reconcile in any sense of the word. He was already inhabiting my mind every waking moment, and then he was going to be here physically as well and…” Sherlock pulls skin off his lip. “Sorry,” he murmurs.

“No, brother, do not be sorry. I understand it. It was not the wisest course of action I admit, but neither was my contacting John without discussing it with you first. We both made mistakes,” Mycroft says softly. “If anything had happened to you that night, anything worse than what did, I would never have forgiven myself. You must know that.”

Sherlock huffs. He tries not to shout at his brother for making this about him, as usual.

“Say something, brother.”

Sherlock just stares at the fields in front of him and tries to quiet his racing mind.

Mycroft stands, and places a light hand on Sherlock’s shoulder. “Please try to stay alive, Sherlock. I do not want to be an only child.”

Frankly, Sherlock could not care less about what his brother wants.

Mycroft looks at him imploringly. “Do not push John away. He only wants to help you, as do I.”

Sherlock stands up, grabs his coffee, and walks away. He hears Mycroft’s sigh as he does. He can’t handle this right now.

**

Mycroft was telling the truth when he said that John had left Mary, but Sherlock cannot get past the fact that John is not here because he cares. He’s here because he is confirmative to the last degree, and when a friend tries to commit suicide, it would be morally outrageous not to visit.

By the time Sherlock’s reached the front door, this idea is implanted firmly in his head. In order to get rid of John, he’s going to have to act like he’s discovered the wonders of life on a bench. He’s going to have to fake it.

So he does.

**

“John!” Sherlock greets, a forced smile spread across his face. It hurts to even say his name to his face. “Breakfast?”

From his position behind a newspaper at the kitchen table, John looks up, his eyebrows crunched together and his mouth agape.

“Er, yeah, okay?”

“Do not respond to a question with a question.”

“Right,” John says briskly, taking a sip of tea. “So, you, er, you alright?”

“Great,” Sherlock beams. “Fine and dandy, in fact. Now, how do you want your eggs?”

“Wait wait wait,” John says, putting his newspaper down. “Why are you making me breakfast?”

Sherlock laughs, but it’s forced, even to his own ears. “Because that’s what people do?”

“Yes,” John intones, “but you’re not _people_.”

“Well that’s quite rude, but I’ll put it down to the early hour. Now, eggs?”

John stands up so fast that the table shakes. “Sherlock,” he says, summoning all those years of army service at once. “Stop.”

Sherlock busies himself in the fridge, putting a barrier between him and John, taking a deep breath in.

“What, don’t you want eggs? I can do toast instead if you would prefer that.”

John slams his hand down on the table, then seems to catch himself and says, almost hissing, “whatever it is you’re doing, whatever game you’re trying to play, it ends now.”

Sherlock flicks the switch on the kettle and reaches for a mug. “Fine then, no food. Tea or coff-”

He’s cut off by John storming over to him and pulling the plug for the kettle out of it’s socket. He’s standing so close that Sherlock can feel his breath.

“Okay, no tea either. Orange juice? I’m sure mother dearest has some-”

“Sherlock,” John whispers, his nostrils flaring with how hard he’s breathing. “You don’t have to do this. You don’t have to pretend, not with me.”

“I’m not, I’m,” he trails off as he opens the fridge again. The cold hits him and he rests his forehead against one of the shelves, his hand still on the handle. He had not expected to be this exhausted by acting so cheerfully. His desire to tell John to fuck off has been severely dampened by his sudden need for sleep. “Well,” he murmurs, “there’s apple juice but it looks…”

He’s shocked into silence when John’s hand puts itself on top of his. His thumb starts stroking the skin where Sherlock’s thumb meets his palm and, just like that, all of his fighting attitude and all of his breath leaves Sherlock in one go.

“Shut the fridge, yeah?” John whispers, stepping closer to Sherlock. He takes his hand off Sherlock’s to move him backwards to push the door shut, and Sherlock’s forehead falls against the closed door once more. He lets out a long groan.

Sherlock’s need for clarity has erased every ounce of his common sense, it seems. John has seen him act like this around clients in order to get the outcome he desires. Of course, of course his imbecilic plan wouldn’t fucking work, not with John. John is many things, but he has never been stupid.

“What can I do?” John asks quietly, hovering by his side.

Sherlock groans again. “Everything hurts,” he whispers, surprised to feel himself becoming choked up.

“I know,” John replies in a hushed voice. “I know.”

**

He finds himself waking up atop the duvet on his bed, and he cannot remember how he got there. John’s lying next to him, eyes closed. The only light in the room comes from Sherlock’s childhood bedside lamp with pirates on the lampshade. His mother offers to replace it every time he visits, but he’s always refused.

For a while, he just lets himself breathe and count the patterns on the ceiling. At some point during that, John stirs beside him.

“Hey,” he mutters, rubbing his face.

Sherlock doesn’t say anything. John is so, so close.

“Do you want me to move? It’s just that earlier, you wouldn’t, er, you didn’t want me to leave, and then, shit, sorry, shouldn’t have fallen asleep, I’ll go.”

Sherlock pauses for a second on the irony that mere hours ago he was berating John for not leaving him alone.

“No,” Sherlock whispers, rolling over. “Stay.”


	8. When The Morning Comes

Sherlock wakes up sometime in the afternoon. John’s still asleep next to him. It only just hits him that John’s probably not been sleeping very well either. Sherlock doesn’t like to think about that, not when he’s trying to just _be_ , so he leaves his room with as little noise as possible and goes walking.

There’s a strange sense of serenity that can be found in being at one with nature. London is his home, it always will be, but he had forgotten how calming it can be to hear nothing but natural sounds. It’s a balm to his frazzled mind, a soother to all the frayed ends and tangled knots that now make up his and John's relationship.

After many wrong turns, he manages to find the bench from earlier again. There's a blanket still there. He pulls it over and sits down.

Around an hour later, it starts to rain, and Sherlock is once again struck by the speed that things can change in the most unexpected of ways.

**

John joins him half an hour after with what must be of Mycroft's umbrellas.

"Here," he says, holding it over Sherlock's head. He stands behind the bench like he's some sort of servant, paid to protect Sherlock from all unseemly weathers. Sherlock tries not to think about what it means for the dynamics of their relationship moving forward.

"I'm plenty wet already, you know."

"Yeah," John says, and then, "well, I can do my best not to make it any worse."

Somehow, Sherlock hears all that John is not saying and his chest clenches.

"No," Sherlock replies, standing up and taking the umbrella from John, "we can both do that." And he holds it between his and John's bodies as they walk back to the house, the grass slipping beneath their feet.

More than once, Sherlock stumbles and John's hand is on his arm in seconds to steady him. Sherlock has to do the same for John, only once, but his hand lingers on John's coat for longer than it should.

"British weather, 'ey?" John says, and everything's back to normal, whatever the hell normal is.

**

Sherlock starts going for walks every morning without fail. He likes to watch the quiet countryside, likes the routine and the peacefulness it brings him.

What he hadn’t counted on was John following him, every time. He misses a few walks but the majority of the time, he’s there, mere paces behind Sherlock.

Every time, they go through the same routine. The pair of them reach the bench and sit, Sherlock on the left, John on the right. Then, John will say, “Sherlock, I have to-” and Sherlock will hold up his hand, silencing him.

Half an hour later, John will try again. Sherlock doesn’t move his head but says, forcefully, “shut up.”

John will stop speaking.

They will walk down the path to the house and John will make Sherlock tea, and occasionally Mycroft or Sherlock’s parents will join them. It’s a routine that Sherlock feels comfortable in, and that’s a small miracle with the war zone that rages in his head every second.

**

Late at night, two weeks after the umbrella incident, Sherlock lies in his bed, kept awake by all the stunted sentences and confused silences. He has suddenly forgotten why he tells John to shut up every day, and his mind will not quiet with the lack of knowledge on what John may say.

The urge to hurt himself is strong, and Sherlock’s never been known for his self-control in any situation.

His log has been forgotten about since he returned from the hospital. There are no new entries in it, but his arms tell a very different story. He has become a high-functioning addict again without realising it at all.

**

When they reach the bench, Sherlock sits on his hands and wills himself not to stop John today, to let him talk.

“Sherlock,” John says, and frowns when Sherlock’s hand doesn’t silence him.

“Okay, so today’s the day. Right. So, I want to-”

Sherlock shakes his head and removes his hands from under his thighs, twining them into his hair. Everything is wrong. Wrong wrong wrong.

“Sherlock?” Beside him, John has gone very still.

Sherlock shakes his head again, heaves out a long breath. “No,” he whispers, swallowing back the rising panic in his chest.

“What?”

Sherlock stands up and walks away. When he’s convinced John is not following him, he mutters, “not today,” and scratches roughly at the skin on his wrist.

**

Mycroft finds him in his bedroom with a freshly bandaged arm.

“Brother,” he says by way of greeting, shutting the door behind him.

“Don’t even ask.”

“It’s rather dark in here, don’t you think?” Mycroft’s hand goes to the dimmer switch.

“No,” Sherlock replies harshly. “Leave it.”

Mycroft takes his hand away slowly and walks to the bed in the middle of the room.

“I thought you were getting better.”

Sherlock laughs, a bitter sound that comes out without him realising. “There is no such thing as better.”

“There is. You don’t take drugs anymore, thus you are better in terms of narcotic addiction.”

“No,” Sherlock spits. “You misunderstand completely. For one thing, I was not addicted, am not addicted, but concurrently, I am no different to how I was back then. I am simply more adept at ignoring the urge. That,” he breathes, twisting his fingers into his trouser leg, “will never go away.”

Mycroft sits in stunned silence as Sherlock cuts off the circulation in his fingers.

“Why are you here?”

“John said-”

“Fuck John,” Sherlock yells. “Who gives a fuck? It’s all John this, John that and I’m sick of it!”

Mycroft sighs deeply. “Sherlock, you do not need to shout at me.”

“I will do whatever the fuck I want to,” he replies through gritted teeth. “Now if you have nothing to say of use, which of course you don’t, get out and leave me in peace.”

Mycroft stands, defeated, and walks out slowly. The click of his door makes Sherlock jump. It is funny, he thinks, there is no peace left whilst he is alive. Not anymore. All the wars are inside of him.

**

It is strange, even to Sherlock with his grasp of neurological processes, how quickly his mood can change. Mere weeks ago, he was lying in the same bed with John beside him. Now, he lies alone, his whole body tense and aching, shivers racking his frame. He hates this side, the physical manifestation of the pain in his head.

As he cuts his right bicep, all of the hairs on his bare arms are standing on end and his skin tingles uncontrollably.

**

John appears a few hours later, knocking softly on the door. Sherlock is in bed, blankets pulled up to his chin and the room is almost complete darkness.

“What?”

“It’s me,” John says. “Can I come in?”

“Fine.” But it’s not fine, not at all.

John walks into the room and immediately turns the dimmer switch up a few notches. Sherlock winces but John doesn’t turn it back down. He perches himself on the end of Sherlock’s bed, his feet hanging off the side.

“Hey,” John says softly. “You alright?”

“Clearly,” Sherlock replies, acidity lacing his tone.

“Okay. Guess I asked for that one.”

“What do you want?” Sherlock says, his voice dull and lifeless.

John coughs, rubs his hands up and down his thighs. “Right, you know what I’m like with this stuff, so I’ll just say it: I’m sorry.”

Sherlock starts. “What?”

“I'm sorry, Sherlock. I've been a complete arse to you, I know I have.”

Sherlock pushes himself up on the pillows until he’s upright. He says nothing.

“I got carried away with Mary, trying to live a normal life, after you, well, you know. Then you came back and I had to put the old-me and the new-me into one version and I suppose new-me won, and I forgot about you in the process.”

Sherlock’s eyebrows crease at that.

“No, no, I don’t mean I forgot about you, of course not, I thought about you every second, God knows I did, I couldn’t get you out of my damn head, but I was angry, so angry with you for not telling me that you were alive. Do you have any idea what it felt like when you were gone?”

Sherlock stares at the duvet and John shakes his head, purses his lips. “Sorry, of course you do, because I’ve just done it to you too.”

“I don’t think they are comparable situations.”

John looks up at him with surprise in his eyes; maybe he wasn’t expecting Sherlock to say anything at all. It surprises Sherlock too.

“Well, they are. I thought you were dead and not coming back, and you thought I was choosing to leave you. Maybe yours was worse, because I was still very much alive.”

“I don’t think that’s fair on you.” For whatever reason, Sherlock resorts to defending John. It comes naturally to him despite everything he’s put him through. _No, wrong, John is just showing you what he felt like. You deserve the pain, you did it to him first._

John huffs out a laugh. “We shouldn’t try to one-up each other at suffering. I know what it felt like, and I did that to you anyway, and that is probably unforgivable.” John moves closer to Sherlock. “I’m still sorry, though.”

Sherlock swallows. He’s in his bed, and John’s sat on it, and God, only a few weeks ago he was overdosing in this very room, just past John’s outline, and not too far away from him either is his razor, and they’re all in the same room at once and that is too unsettling for words. Sherlock sometimes wants to die, for Christ’s sake, but now John’s gone and turned up at his parents’ house and made everything more complicated and nothing feels safe anymore.

John said he’s sorry but Sherlock doesn’t know if he is, not really. It doesn’t seem like enough. Sorry doesn’t even begin to cover how Sherlock feels about his actions towards John. He feels like he’s done a million things to try and fix everything, and in the process, he’s made a million mistakes and missteps and everything’s even worse than it was before. Not only did he leave John thinking he was dead, but he isn’t what he used to be anymore, either. He’s broken, and it’s written all over his skin, as clear as the stars on a winter’s night.

“Sherlock?”

John’s concerned face stares straight at him, worry etching his forehead into lines.

“You okay there?”

Sherlock nods disjointedly, but under the covers he starts scratching his thigh underneath his pyjama bottoms.

“Can you… I want to sleep.”

“You, wanting to sleep? That’s a new one. Whoever you are and whatever you’ve done with Sherlock, please carry on.” John smiles, but then seems to realise where he is, and stands up with a grimace on his face. “If you need anything, I’m in the first floor spare room. Just down the hall.”

“I won’t.”

“Okay,” John replies, heaving out a big sigh, limping towards the door. “Well, I’m there if you change your mind. Sleep well.”

Sherlock watches John leave, notices his returned limp but ignores what it means. He doesn’t sleep for a second.

**

He resolutely refuses to leave his room. He screams at Mycroft when he tries to open the door. John doesn’t appear much in person, but his name appears on his phone all the time.

**I found a new bench. More comfortable than the other one.**

**It’s got a great view.**

**

A few hours later, Sherlock gets a text that nearly stops his breath. He can’t help himself when his fingers fly across the screen.

**If you want me to leave, tell me.**

No, please, don’t do that. - SH

**Okay. I’ll just sit outside your room until you let me in then.**

I’m sorry. - SH

I don’t know what’s happening to me. - SH

**Don’t be sorry.**

**If you remember nothing else, remember this: I’m not going anywhere, Sherlock. There is nothing you could say to make me change my mind.**

**You don’t have to do this alone.**

Something inside Sherlock breaks at that, and he’s sobbing into his pillow before he can tell himself not to. There’s a light tap at his door and then John’s beside him.

“No, no, go away.”

“Shut up and let me help you,” John whispers, running his hand over his hair.

“No,” Sherlock chokes out.

“It’s okay, it’s okay, I’m here,” John says quietly.

Sherlock feels like he can’t breathe, like everything is falling apart. He turns his face further into his pillow, holds his breath and waits for the panic to subside, but it doesn’t. He lets out a gasp and feels his chest stuttering and tears running down his face and he can’t breathe and he’s going to-

“Sherlock,” John says in a strong voice, pulling his shoulders away from the pillow. “Listen to me. You’re having a panic attack. It’s okay, you just need to breathe.”

Sherlock’s mind stumbles at that, he _can’t_ be having a panic attack, his mind is too clever for that, surely. But then he tries to breathe again and he can’t, he can’t breathe, oh _fuck_ he can’t breathe-

“Sherlock!” John says, right in his ear. “Sherlock, sit up and face me. You’re going to be okay. I’m here. You need to breathe.”

John pulls him away from the pillow and into a sitting position. John tries to get Sherlock to follow his breathing as they sit facing each other, but it doesn’t work. Sherlock can’t look at him, can’t pretend that he’s okay when he can’t even _fucking_ breathe and oh dear God, what is happening to him?

John moves quickly off the bed and Sherlock lets out a whimper, folds himself forward because he’s so messed up now that John is leaving him, and he still can’t breathe. He’s going to die here, all alone.

Sherlock’s whining as he feels John sit down behind him.

“I’m here, Sherlock, it’s alright, I’m not leaving you.” He pulls Sherlock into his open legs, and wraps his hands around his stomach. “Right,” he says, tugging Sherlock even closer, “you can feel my chest falling and rising on your back, yeah?”

Sherlock nods, putting his hands over John’s. John turns his hand up and twists his fingers into Sherlock’s.

“I’ve got you,” John murmurs into his ear. “Breathe with me, Sherlock.”

Sherlock lets his head fall back against John’s shoulder as he squeezes his hand. “John,” he whispers as he tries to regulate his breathing. “John, I-”

“It’s okay, you’re okay,” John whispers. “We’re going to be okay, you and me,” he says as he turns his head into Sherlock’s and breathes with him.


	9. Tell Me How Long Before You Go

It’s about midday when Sherlock’s eyes shoot open. He’s tangled in duvet covers, and someone’s hand is in his, crossed over his chest. He jerks awake from _falling falling falling and watching John fall behind him and he’s powerless to stop him_ -

“‘erlock?” John’s voice says beside him, scrubbing at his eyes with his other hand. “Everything okay?”

Sherlock shuffles on the bed until he’s more upright, then stares down at his hand wrapped in John’s. John’s hand squeezes his, he sees it and feels it at once, and it’s so strange but so wondrous and it feels so safe-

“Sherlock, you with me?”

He sniffs, then nods. “Yeah.”

John’s stomach rumbles beside him. He turns his head to look at Sherlock, his eyes soft and his voice quiet. “Do you want any food?”

Sherlock looks back down at where their hands lay connected, and he twitches his fingers to feel John’s hand against his again.

John’s breathing stutters for a second, but then, almost in slow motion, he moves closer to Sherlock and lifts their joint hands up to his face, placing his lips delicately on the back of Sherlock’s hand. It’s feels like a dream, but Sherlock knows it can’t be, because his dreams are never this nice anymore.

“This okay?” John whispers, stroking his hand softly.

Sherlock tilts his head forward in an attempt at nodding, lost for words.

“I’m not going anywhere, Sherlock. Promise.”

**

Sherlock pulls his hand out of John’s a while later. He kept waiting for John to get up and leave, but it never happened. Whether that was a conscious decision on John’s part, he isn’t sure, but it was very welcome.

He pokes his head around his bedroom door and smiles halfheartedly. “Sounds like lunch is underway,” he mutters.

John stands up and pulls a jumper over his thin t-shirt. “Alright,” John says. “Want me to wait for you?”

Sherlock cocks his head in confusion. He’s not going out there. He hasn’t been to one of the big lunches since he arrived. Usually mother will bring him a selection of foods on a plate and he’ll leave them untouched. When we returns from a walk, the plate will be gone.

“You’ve got to eat, Sherlock. We can go together. I’m sure your mum would like to see you up and about at least.”

Sherlock snorts. “Don’t do that,” he spits.

“Do what?” John asks, walking closer towards him.

“Make me feel guilty for staying in my room. It won’t work, John, don’t even try.”

John lets out a long breath. “I’m not trying to make you feel guilty. I just, I know from, you know, being a doctor and all that, that people with depression often want to coop themselves up but that’s not really the best-”

“What?” Sherlock says sharply. “What did you just say to me?”

“Er, that staying in here all the time isn’t your greatest idea?”

“No, not that. You sad that people with…” Sherlock trails off.

“People with depression?” John prompts.

Sherlock doesn’t say anything, just stands there staring at the ground.

“Sherlock?” John asks, stepping so he’s directly in front of him.

“I’m not depressed.”

“It’s okay if you-”

“I am not depressed! I’m not, I don’t have that, I don’t, my brain wouldn’t do that to me, it wouldn’t, John, don’t you get it? I’m not depressed. I’m not.”

John gently puts his hands on Sherlock’s upper arms, squeezes them a little. “Sorry, I just, I thought…”

Sherlock lifts his head up to look John in the eyes as he says, so quietly, “how can I be depressed? I can’t be, I can’t, the work, John, the work? I can’t work if I can’t think or I can’t sleep, I can’t work, I don’t…”

John pulls him into a hug, strokes his back as Sherlock’s breathes raggedly.

“I know that are a lot of things going on at the moment, and I know I’m to blame for a lot of them, and god help me if that doesn’t make me feel like just stepping of a cliff every now and then, because sure as fuck it does, I hate what I’ve done to you-”

“You’ve not done anything to me. I did it to me.”

“You, more than anyone, you know things are not that black and white. They never are, and this certainly isn’t. Anyway, listen to me. Whether you are or are not depressed, it doesn’t matter. Well, of course it matters, but I’m not going to disappear if things get tough is what I’m trying to say.”

Sherlock lets out a long sigh.

He doesn't think he can believe a word of it.

**

John goes for lunch and Sherlock doesn’t. He stays in his room, sat with his back to the wall as he tries to convince himself that John is telling the truth.

Mycroft interrupts him in the early afternoon, standing at Sherlock’s feet. “I’ve got to leave for a few days. Official business, it can’t wait.”

“Right.”

“I’ll be available on my mobile at all times, should anything arise.”

“Okay.”

“I’ll see you soon, then.” He turns to leave, then with his back to Sherlock, he speaks. “Please, take care of yourself. I don’t want to be an only child.” Something akin to emotion registers in his brother’s voice, and Sherlock finds himself frozen.

Just as Mycroft reaches the door, Sherlock calls out, “Mycroft?”

“Yes?”

“Why is he here?”

Mycroft sighs and looks to the floor. “You need to ask him that.”

“I can’t.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean I can’t ask him, hence why I am asking you.”

“Yes, but why?”

Sherlock sighs, digs his nails into some healing cuts on his left arm. “I don’t trust him to tell me the truth.”

“And why not?”

“Because I’m like this, in this house, and he’s here because you told him to come and he’s just doing what any normal person would.”

“Which is?” Mycroft says, sitting on the bed.

“Masking the truth to make me feel better,” Sherlock spits. “I hate it, and I need you not to lie to me too.”

“I don’t think John would lie to you-”

“So he’s telling me that he’s not leaving because he means it, or because he thinks it’s what I want to hear?”

“Ah,” Mycroft sighs. “I see. You cannot decipher which because of your current state and recent events.”

Sherlock nods wordlessly.

“Now, tell me, why is he here? What did you say to him?”

Mycroft looks at his brother like he’s a young boy again. “I was worried, Sherlock. I have never worried about you so much as I have these past few weeks. Not even with the drugs or the overdoses, because that was a habit, as you tell me so often. This, however, is a method of dealing with things that I cannot understand.

“You were not coping, brother. I didn’t want to leave you alone for fear I would walk into your room to find you unconscious or worse.” Mycroft rubs his hand over his face, a sad smile tugging at his lips. “When you called for my help that evening and you spoke of John, everything made sense in my head. I had no choice but to ring him. I can see now that it was not the most thoughtful decision I have ever made, but Sherlock, you must understand, I do not wish to see you like this. No matter our differences, this is not something I can sit idly by and watch happen. Do you understand?”

Sherlock nods, swallowing the lump in his throat. “Why John?”

“Because he made you the happiest you have ever been. You jumped for him, Sherlock. I know that. You know that. So he doesn’t understand, that doesn’t make the way you feel for him any less. I had to at least try to remind you of that.”

Sherlock nods, understanding dawning on his face. “Is he not here out of pity then?”

“I don’t know about that. But he is here now, and he is here for you and you only. Let him in.”

“I don’t think I can. Not again. Not if he-”

“Just talk to him, Sherlock. For your sake and his sake, talk to him.”

“What do you mean, his sake? He left. He left after everything I did for him, and he didn’t even think twice. He left me bleeding in a fish and chip shop, Mycroft.”

“Yes, and you left him too, once upon a time. He thought you were never ever coming back. Think about that,” Mycroft says. Then, softly, as he shuts the door, “you are not the only one with scars, brother. It would do you well to remember that.”

**

Mycroft leaves, and Sherlock falls asleep against the wall.

John comes in and whispers, “sorry!” with a grimace as he wakes Sherlock up. Sherlock shakes his head, rolls his shoulders where they’ve got stiff.

“You okay?”

Sherlock nods. “Yeah, yeah, I’m alright.” Then, after a pause in which John sits on his bed, “how are you?”

John looks up at that, surprise on his face. Sherlock really hasn’t been very attentive to John lately. “Um, yeah, fine, thank you.”

“John,” Sherlock says slowly. “Don’t lie.”

“I could say the same to you.”

Sherlock shrugs. They sit in silence once more. Sherlock’s about to get up when John speaks again.

“I’ve left Mary,” he says.

“Mm, Mycroft said you had.”

“She was pregnant.”

Sherlock’s head snaps up at that, his eyes wild with shock. “Are you…”

“No, I’m not the father. Of course I’m not the fucking father,” John says through gritted teeth.

“I’m sorry, John.”

“Nah,” John replies. “It seems everyone but me knew. Bloody great, that is.”

“Mm.”

“Did you know?”  
 Sherlock pauses, considers his answer. “I had my suspicions,” he says truthfully.

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Do you think you would have listened?” John tries to interrupt him, but Sherlock raises a hand to cut him off. “You would have assumed that I was trying to destroy your relationship because that’s the kind of person I am, after all.”

John says nothing, just sighs angrily and rubs his hands over his face.

“You never did tell me how you did it,” he says out of nowhere.

“You know my methods, John. I am known to be indestructible.”

John laughs shortly. “We both know that’s not true.”

Sherlock just looks at him, sees all the sleepless nights and the lines etched into his face, the nervous spasms in his hand, his invisible leg pain. Sherlock sees it all, and it makes him want to cry because it’s all his fault.

“What happened to us?” Sherlock asks quietly. “We were a team, and now look at us. What happened?”

He doesn’t expect a response, and the silence doesn’t worry him. That is, until he hears John sniff.

“I thought you were dead,” John chokes. “You made me watch you jump off that fucking hospital and you expect things to go back to normal? You think I’d be okay? If we were a team, you would have told me what was going on.”

Sherlock sighs. “I couldn’t tell you. I had to do it, I had to make it believable to protect Mrs Hudson and Lestrade.” Sherlock can’t bring himself to admit that he did it all for John. He can’t say that out loud, because once it’s out, he can’t take it back. He cannot cut himself that wide open for John to walk away and leaving him bleeding out.

“Right. So you left me mourning for you for two years to protect our landlady and a bobby? Are you being serious?”

“I-”

“I mean, I get it, you like them both, but Christ Sherlock, what about me? Did you not think about me? Do you even know how bad it-” John cuts himself off, breathing in raggedly.

Sherlock can’t speak, can’t move, can’t do anything except sit there and take it. He deserves it.

Oh, and there’s that thought again: _he should have jumped for real._

“You rang me! You left your fucking suicide note with me, you wanker, and you expect me to just pick myself up and carry on? Even if you’d been a complete stranger, watching you jump from that roof would have screwed me over. You were my best friend, Sherlock. My best friend, and you killed yourself in front of me. I thought I could have saved you. I thought I, I don’t know, that I wasn’t enough for you.”

Sherlock stares at his shoes, the urge to make himself bleed hitting him full force. “I don’t know what to say to you. I’ve said sorry.”

“Fuck off, Sherlock. I don’t want to listen to any more of this.”

“John,” Sherlock manages, nails digging holes into his palm. “Pleas, I can’t-”

“No, I can’t. Either you’ve been a massive dick all along, which I know you aren’t, I know you, which means you’re lying to me through your teeth. You don’t need to do that, how many times do I have to tell you that? If you need someone around, I’ll go and get your mum, but I can’t be in here with you at the moment. I just, I.”

Sherlock shakes his head, his mouth hanging open. He’s got to do something. He’s got to-

John picks up his jacket and storms out, slamming the door behind him.

His mum knocks on the door a few times, brings him a cup of watery tea half an hour after John left. Sherlock doesn’t even think or breathe as he cuts himself on the bathroom floor. He lets himself bleed all over his trousers and he just sits and sits and sits.

**

Sherlock paces up and down his room for half an hour around midnight. He's not entirely sure why, just that his brain is too active and his usual methods are not proving particularly helpful for him at this time. He’s already done more than he should have, and he went a bit dizzy from blood loss at one point, but nothing’s helping. Nothing is working anymore.

It feels like there are two halves of him fighting with each other. One half is Sherlock with John. It's Sherlock feeling appreciated for the first time in his life. It's a part of him that smells like old jumpers and takeaways, that smiles and laughs and sees all the beautiful things in the world rather than all of the bad bits. It's feeling happy, and when he looks at John, he sees all the things he wants but cannot have. It's bittersweet but beautiful and safe and stable. It’s everything Sherlock thought he would never have.

The other half is Sherlock without John. It's Sherlock in Serbia, torture and cold floors and hunger pains ripping through his stomach. It’s a Sherlock who went through all of that pain to return to John; the Sherlock that returned to find out there was no point in returning. It's cold and damp and dark, smells like blood and metal and cigarette smoke. It smells like his parents' house, like forests and a rotting bench and a stuffy bedroom. The second half is not happy, not at all.

He doesn’t know if he can put them together anymore. John is the blood that runs through his very veins. He’s spent the past month or so without him, and it’s turned him into someone that he really does not like, but he cannot fathom how to merge the person he is now with the person he used to be. Why would John even want him anymore? He didn’t before, there’s no way he would now.

At 3:47am, Sherlock decides that he has to at least try. He can’t lose John completely. He will offer himself up, and if John walks away, then so be it. The things he feels for him, Sherlock doesn’t have the words, but it’s big and it’s bold and he can’t ignore it. Mycroft’s words rattle around his head: let him in, let him in, let him in.

Sherlock needs to fight for John. He has to try.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bonjour from Paris! I hope this chapter meets your expectations after the wait. My exams are done with now, so fingers crossed for more regular updates now I am education free for the summer. :)


	10. Help Me Find A Truth In All This False

The thing is, telling himself he needs to talk to John honestly and openly and actually _doing it_ , well, they are very different things.

Sherlock puts his hand on John’s bedroom door more times than he can count. He walks to it, rehearsing something in his head, but then as soon as the prospect of John actually listening to what he has to say hits his mind, he blanks. His heart starts racing and his palm starts sweating on the door handle and his other hand starts clenching like John’s does sometimes, and then before he knows it, he’s back in the safety of his bathroom, clawing at himself.

The part of it that Sherlock can’t stand, well, more than all the other awful parts, is being in the awkward stand-off phase. It was alright when Sherlock was in control because John had wronged him, but now he’s upset John without meaning to, just by holding words back, and that feels … not good.

It’s not easy to accept that he hurt John. He would do anything for him. He left everything behind, he endured torture and pain and anguish stronger than anything he’s ever felt, and he did it all, every single second, _for John_. To try and reconcile the hurt he caused John by jumping with the reason he did it in the first place ( _John_ ) is too much. If his brain was a machine, it would be steaming and overheating at the moment.

John called him a machine once, before he jumped, when he was lying through his teeth again…

Sherlock can feel his head getting foggy again. He’s noticed that recently, his whole body gets affected by his mind. It starts in his chest, with tighter breaths and an increase in his heart rate, and then it turns to tingling, all over. He gets cold, goosebumps spring up on his arms, and he feels like his skin is too tight, like a shirt that is three sizes too small.

It’s times like these when he has no option but to hurt himself. No, it doesn’t stop his thoughts for any longer than he hurts himself for, but it gives him something to think about, provides a distraction from all the things he can’t control and all the things he’s done wrong. It’s his. No one can take it away from him.

**

It’s a rainy day when he cuts too deep again. Mycroft’s back in London attending to important business, and though he considers ringing him, his phone is charging across the other side of the bedroom and getting to it would mean leaving a trail of blood across his mother’s carpets. He’d rather not.

So he sits, and he sits, and he sits some more. He presses the tissue against his arm so hard that his hand starts to ache with the strain of it all. Letting go for even a second starts the stream of blood again, and Sherlock groans with the annoyingness of it all. Why can’t he just press a button and it stop? This is not the point; the point is pain, distraction, making the outside match the in, not bleeding to death in a stupid tiny bathroom in the middle of-

“Sherlock, you in there?”

If there was ever a time when Sherlock needed his heart not to race, this would be it. John.

“I’m on the toilet,” he replies in as calm of a voice as he can manage.

“You’ve been in there for a long time,” John says.

“What do you care?” Sherlock spits, and oh, that was not the correct response at all.

“I care, okay, you ignorant prick. I care a lot!” John shouts, and he’s closer to the door now.

Sherlock doesn’t know what to say. For a start, he can’t slow his breathing enough to even talk. Then, his hand cramps and slips, and blood trickles onto his white undershirt and without meaning to, seems he has no control these days at all, he whisper-shouts, “fuck.”

Of course, of fucking course, John is close enough to the door to hear.

“What’s going on in there?”

Sherlock swears again as he fumbles for more tissues. “Nothing, go away,” he mutters.

“Come out, and then I’ll go,” John shouts, knocking his knuckles on the door three times.

Sherlock looks up at the ceiling and prays to some deity he doesn’t believe in to remove John from his bedroom immediately. He waits, and waits some more, but unsurprisingly, it doesn’t work.

“Sherlock?” John says, quieter this time. It comes from closer to the ground too.

“I told you to go,” Sherlock mumbles, and he’s really not sure what is happening to his arm’s blood supply but it can’t be positive or beneficial in any way.

“I’m not going anywhere. I was wrong to leave you last night, so wrong.” A pause, a deep breath and then, “I’m sorry. I was angry and I took it out on you, and I shouldn’t have done that.”

Sherlock lets his head fall back against the wall. He can feel himself getting tingly again.

“If you’re in there doing what I think you are, and it’s because of me, I, fuck,” John sniffs loudly, clearing his throat. “Please, Sherlock, I was wrong. I keep fucking things up, I know I do. I don’t mean to. It’s just, you, you mean more to me than anything, more than any stupid argument or any stupid woman. You’re back now. I need to keep you here. I can’t lose you again. Please. Let me help.”

Sherlock tries to breathe properly but he can’t. He feels a bit dizzy and a whole lot stupid and there is no way he’s getting out of here without John knowing. His first-aid kit is hidden in his wardrobe; clearly, he was not expecting this ambush.

“Sherlock, answer me. You’re scaring me now.”

Sherlock groans. “I didn’t mean to, I swear, I didn’t,” he mumbles.

John’s voice moves as he stands up and tries the door handle. “Right, right, okay. I need you to unlock the door for me, okay? I won’t say another word if that’s what you want- or, you know, whatever you need at the moment.”

With his injured arm, he reaches forward and manages to flick the lock open, and immediately wishes he hadn’t. John opens the door and his face is so incredibly pale, his eyes are bloodshot and red-rimmed, and his hand shakes as he lets go of the handle.

“It’s okay,” John says softly as he moves next to Sherlock, first-aid kit in hand. How he knew where that was, Sherlock has no idea. Sat on the floor in a short-sleeved top, Sherlock feels rather exposed and raw. It’s not a nice feeling.

“Let me see,” John whispers, nudging Sherlock’s side.

“No, it’s fine, it’ll stop in a minute. You, er, can I have some plasters?”

John bristles at that, pulls back a bit. “I need to see, Sherlock. You might need stitches.”

Sherlock sighs. Of course John doesn’t understand. Stitches are never an option, not after the pain it took to get here. He’s not having this whole fiasco being reduced to a tiny line on his arm. Not a chance. “No,” he says firmly. “Just, give me some plasters and leave it be.”

John places his hand on top of Sherlock’s where it’s holding the tissue down, and he rubs it softly, like he did that day in the kitchen, and Sherlock’s mind just … stops. There’s something about the way John touches him that makes everything stop. It’s like nothing else he’s ever experienced. His breath catches in his throat, and as he turns to look at John, he tries to breathe calmly.

“This okay?” John murmurs into his ear.

“Yeah,” Sherlock whispers, overcome with it all.

John pulls his arm over to his lap, where after peeking at the wound, he adds extra pressure on top of Sherlock’s. After a few minutes, he pulls some gauze out of his kit and adds it underneath Sherlock’s hand. He rubs soft circles into Sherlock’s hand the whole time.

“Sorry you had to see this,” Sherlock mutters, looking at the floor intently.

“It’s okay. I’d rather be on this side of the door than the other.”

Sherlock takes a deep breath in. He can’t be anymore vulnerable than he is now. “John, I haven’t been wholly honest with you.” He breathes out, tries to quell the trembling in his whole body.

John’s searching gaze is crowding him, pushing him back to the furthest corners of the tiny room.

“I know that many people would not associate with me after the way I’ve treated you, and what’s more, I’m sure that most would not have even considered moving into a flat with a complete stranger. But then again, I suppose, you are not most people.” Sherlock rubs at his palm with his fingers and swallows.

“You are unlike anyone I have ever known before, John, and before you say anything to the contrary, I’ve known a lot of people. You are kind, and warm, and,” Sherlock stumbles, tipping his head down to look at the floor. “And you are, and you always have been, more of a friend to me than anyone ever has.”

“Sherlock,” John breathes, his hand squeezing Sherlock’s tight.

“I have a lot to be sorry for, John. I’ve done many awful things and said many sentences that should never have even been thoughts in the first place, but all of it, every single word and deed, pales in comparison to the way I have hurt you.” Sherlock’s breath stutters in his chest. Out of the corner of his eye, he can see John tensing up.

“You defended me when I did not deserve it. I am not worthy of your friendship but you gave it to me anyway, for reasons I doubt I will ever understand. Of all the things in the world that I try to understand, you are the most confusing.” Sherlock lets out a long breath, looks straight at John.

“Yesterday, you said I didn’t think of you when I, when I disappeared, but I did. I thought of nothing but you. They whipped me and they beat me and they starved me and I let them because it was easier to take the pain than to think of why I was there.”

“And why were you there?” John asks, shifting closer to him.

“For you,” he breathes. “I lied, John, as is only habit by now. I didn’t jump for Molly or Lestrade or Mrs. Hudson. I did it for you. All of it was for you. I swear, I didn’t mean to hurt you, I didn’t think, I just had to stop Moriarty. I didn’t care what happened to me, I still don’t, as long as you’re alive and well.”

“But Sherlock,” John says imploringly, “I wasn’t well without you. I was a fucking wreck.”

Sherlock breathes out slowly. “I should not have left you behind, I know that now. I am so very sorry for everything I did to hurt you,” he whispers, his voice breaking on the last word.

“Oh god, come here,” John says quickly, pulling Sherlock into a very tight hug. Sherlock can feel tears gathering in his eyes and he tries to blink them away unsuccessfully. He can’t believe what is happening. Mere weeks ago, he thought that John would happily live life without him. Clearly, according to the evidence wrapped tightly around him, that is not the situation at all.

“Sherlock, you okay there?”

Sherlock coughs a little and pulls back to smile sadly as his eyes well over. “I thought, I,” he stutters.

“Hush,” John whispers as he pulls Sherlock back to him.

“I thought I’d lost you,” Sherlock murmurs into John’s shoulder. “I thought you-”

“Well, you thought wrong, didn’t you?” John says as he wipes his eyes and pulls away to place his arm around Sherlock’s shoulders.

“So many things happened, John,” Sherlock breathes shakily. “So many awful things happened to me and I did it for you and then I came back and god, I wish I’d actually died-”

“Sherlock!” John whisper-shouts. “Stop it, stop this now. I fucked up, I know. I fucked up big time. I shouldn’t have left you. I knew you were keeping something from me, so the fact you wouldn’t tell me drove me crazy. I lashed out at you, and I pushed you away, and all that did was make everything worse, clearly. I used Mary as a distraction and I tried to replace you and fuck knows that didn’t work,” John says with a sad smile. “I’m so sorry for doing that to you.”

Sherlock sniffs and leans his head into John’s arm. “We’re both sorry then,” he says with a wet laugh.

“We are,” John affirms. He takes Sherlock’s hand and kisses it gently. “Listen, we need to stop torturing each other with things we did wrong. We did them because we couldn’t bear to be without each other. That’s all we have to remember for now, alright?”

Sherlock nods slowly. “I swear I never realised what I’d done-”

“I know, love. I know. We both messed up. But, you’re allowed to be vulnerable too, you know. You’re allowed to feel things, good and bad. We’ve both been too secretive up to now and it needs to stop. It’s okay to talk to me, and for me to talk to you, rationally and honestly. You’re allowed to tell me how you’re doing, whether it’s great or awful, alright? That will never change.”

Sherlock nods jerkily and coughs and turns his face into John’s sleeve and feels utterly overcome with his feelings for this man, feelings which have gone unnamed for years. Sat in his bathroom, staring into his eyes and revealing the part of himself that he fights so hard to hide, it’s intimacy like Sherlock’s never experienced. He doesn’t know what to do with it.

**

“Are you ever going to show me this new bench, or I am going to have to prise its location out of my parents?”

John chuckles beside him as he reaches up for Sherlock’s dad parka. He’s taken to wearing it in the more bitter mornings, and seeing it on John does things to Sherlock’s stomach that he thinks are more commonly referred to as ‘butterflies’. They’ve been going on more walks in the time before the sun rises lately. They talk about everything and nothing, and at times it’s awkward and at times it’s silent but most of the time, it’s everything to Sherlock. He looks at John wearing his dad’s big winter coat in front of miles of green fields, and his stomach trembles with what it all means.

“Want me to take you there now?”

Sherlock adjusts the hood on John’s coat as he looks at him, and says, “not today.”

“Alright,” John says while smiling. “That can be an adventure for another day. Lead the way.”

**

Sherlock’s arm is still bandaged from the other day when they walk. John looks at him sometimes like he can see every cut and every scar through Sherlock’s four layers, and that look makes his heart race. He blinks it away and pretends that his eyes are just taking in the scenery, not trying to build a barrier between his catastrophic mess of a person and John’s ever-searching gaze.

John catches him doing it this time.

“What’s up?”

“Hm?”

“You look like you’ve forgotten how to breathe properly.”

“Oh,” Sherlock says, suddenly hyper aware of his breathe, throwing it out of its natural pattern. “Er, I haven’t.”

“Everything okay?”

Sherlock sighs slowly, thankful when he sees their bench up ahead. “I’m okay.”

“Sherlock?”

“Let’s sit,” Sherlock replies, pulling his gloves off and tucking them in his pockets.

“So,” John starts.

“Yes?”

“What’s on your mind?”

Sherlock starts, turns to John so quickly that his head spins. “Excuse me?”

“We said we were going to be more honest with each other. No time like the present.”

Sherlock scoffs. “There are a hundred thousand things going through my mind at any given moment. Do you really want to discuss them all?”

“I don’t mean literally, Sherlock,” John humphs. “Fine, I’ll start then. But, you have to be serious and honest with me. I’m not doing it if you’re going to act like a child.”

“Sorry,” Sherlock says softly. “I’m not good at this. But I’ll try,” he murmurs, “for you.”

“Thank you. Right. So. I wanted to write this to you in a letter or something but I didn’t know how to give it to you and it not be really awkward so-”

“John. Get on with it.”

“Yes. Okay. So, Sherlock,” John says, fiddling with the zip on his ( _Sherlock’s_ _dad’s_ ) coat. “I know that things have been really hard for you lately and that some coping mechanisms have emerged that are less than ideal.”

“Oh for Christ’s-”

“Um, no, you said you wouldn’t behave like a child, so just hear me out, alright?”

Sherlock sits on his hands and looks across the valley.

“I’m not stupid. I knew something was up at Baker Street and at least I know what it is now, I suppose. I just, right, well, I get it.”

Sherlock frowns. “What?”

“I said, I get it.”

“Yes, I heard that part.”

“Okay.”

Sherlock shakes his head. “No, not okay. Explain.”

John smiles. “I thought you didn’t want to talk.”

Sherlock huffs, but he smiles a little bit too. “Shut up. I need all of the facts to form a coherent conclusion. Currently operating with very minimal facts at all.”

John nods slowly. “Okay, so, I understand why you do it, why you’ve been hurting yourself.” It sounds a hundred times worse coming out of John’s mouth than Sherlock ever thought. But, the thing is, he’d never thought what it would sound like because he never allowed himself to think that John would find out and still talk to him; or, even more so, that John would ever talk to him again regardless. It’s all very confusing, and it feels like Sherlock’s insides are being scraped away, leaving nothing but his darkest secrets and biggest fears on show.

“Okay.”

“Right. I don’t like it. I hate it. I would much rather you didn’t do it, but at the same time, I understand. Obviously I am not inside your head, so there are things that I’ll need you to be honest with me about so I can understand better,” John says, moving to wrap Sherlock’s hand in his. Sherlock had been scratching his wrist without realising.

“And I’m not going to tell you to stop because god knows that never worked before and also, you’re you, you stubborn git, but because I know you’re not stupid. You’re scarily intelligent, jesus, so I know that you’re doing this for a reason that makes absolute sense to you, and I respect that.” John breathes in, squeezes Sherlock’s hand tightly.

“When I thought you had died, I was a mess. I was a complete and utter mess and I fucked up so many things in so many ways that it’s a miracle that Lestrade still talks to me. I was a proper dick. Anyway, I’m saying that I understand the feelings behind it. I didn’t do anything, although heaven knows the thought crossed my mind everyday, but I’m saying that I get it. It’s not okay, but I get it, Sherlock, and anything you need, I’m here. For good, now. You shouldn’t have left, but neither should I. It’s you and me again, and that’s a promise.”

Sherlock breathes in and out and tries to compute what is happening.

“You okay?”

Sherlock nods. “John,” Sherlock mutters. “John Hamish Watson, where on earth did I find you?”

“In a lab at Bart’s, I believe. And actually, technically Mike found us both, so don’t get taking the credit.” John laughs, and Sherlock laughs too, and it’s all completely ridiculous because John knows and John has seen and John is still here, with him and John understands and he doesn’t hate him and John. John John John John.

Sherlock breathes in deeply and puts his hand over John’s left ear, pushing his fingers into John’s short hair. He tries to breathe but instead gets choked up, and John pulls him closer.

“I’ve got you, love. I’m here,” John whispers, and he cups Sherlock’s face with his free hand, smoothing his thumb over Sherlock’s cheekbone.

Without thinking, Sherlock puts his lips onto John’s wrist and closes his eyes. He exhales slowly, breathing properly for the first time since he got to his parents’ house.

The next second, John’s nose is nudging his head up and his lips are on Sherlock’s. It’s slow and it’s smooth and it’s the most intimate thing Sherlock has ever done. He feels winded from all the feelings rushing through his body. For a change, it feels good.

John pulls back slowly and smiles at him from under his lashes, kissing Sherlock’s pulse point. “You have no idea how long I’ve wanted to do that.”

Sherlock thinks he’s crying a little bit as he answers, “trust me, I do.”

“God, we’ve been such morons,” John laughs wetly. “Blind as bats.”

“Actually, large bats can see up to three times better than humans.”

“That’s great, really, and god only knows why you know that and not the composition of our solar system but you know what-”

Sherlock grins, stopping John mid-sentence, and puts his hand on his back, pulling John into him and kissing him again and again and again, as if he’s the only source of oxygen available.

To Sherlock, he is.

**

Sherlock told John the truth, and John didn’t run off. In fact, John got very much closer and responded with a level of honesty that makes Sherlock want to be better, for him. It was perhaps the hardest thing he’s ever done, opening himself up like that, but he did it. And now, John’s back. _His_ John is back.

In fact, he’s got a new John. Sherlock stares at John lying beside him in bed, and he aches to reach out and hold him for all the times he thought he would never even see his face again. Instead, he links his pinky finger up with John’s thumb, kisses it softly and breathes slowly.

Sherlock hurt him harshly and selfishly, and John hurt him irretrievably in return. There were too many casualties, too much blood shed, and many hard conversations still to come, but their war is over at last. They can start healing, together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this part of Sherlock and John's story is over, but don't worry, there's lots more to come! Originally I was going to put everything into TBF, but I feel like this is a good end to this part. After this, the real hard work starts with the pair of them trying to figure out their relationship in and amongst all the mess they've made. 
> 
> Thank you all so much for reading this far! I really appreciate every single one of you beyond words. :)


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